Turnabout Sandwich
by Ramen II
Summary: There's one thing for certain. Kristoph Gavin likes a sandwich more than he likes to name fanfictions about them.
1. Chapter 1

**The Beginning**

Kristoph Gavin was a great fan of sandwiches.

He liked going home and placing out all the different ingredients on the counter.

He liked being able to look at them all, nice shiny packets or neatly re packaged ones, foodstuffs waiting for him to deign to pick them.

He loved to pick and choose his fillings. It was a little secret thrill of his. As if he could play at being god - choosing the laws and customs of a newly established country of which he was the grand creator and that a ham based product might be better for the fledgling government compared to that nice French pâté he'd come across last Tuesday.

It was all about choice.

Kristoph Gavin wasn't going to flatter anyone intentionally if could help it, but he always made the right choice.

To start with he chose his favourite knife. It was a brand less item he'd bought from a man with a very agreeable sense of taste and a most interesting enjoyment of stuffing animals in his spare time.

It shined as he lifted it from the block and placed it on the counter beside his breadboard.

In the draw below the counter, he began to open it very slowly, enjoying the slow revealing of his favourite lunchtime attire.

Donning white apron, he tied it loosely about his person and of course sans suit jacket rolled up his sleeves to a suitable yet not ridiculous level.

The chef's hat he placed so reverently on his head plumped up nicely and he couldn't help but imagine how professional he must look.

He looked down at his kingdom, just waiting to be structured.

Now to work.

Steadfast bread – the cornerstones of a decent sandwich – light, soft to the touch, pure white with the crusts cut off to a half centimetre.

Perfect.

Neatly he took two slices and placed them on the breadboard in front of him, vigorously scrubbed from last night's veal chops.

He redid the ties of the bag and replaced it in the bread cabinet.

He crossed his kitchen to the oven and knelt before it. Spinning a few dials until the grill began to warm.

Sometimes Kristoph Gavin liked his sandwiches hot.

Returning to his task he too an overview of his current stock.

Rearranging a few sandwich fillers he'd bought for the sake of a decent two for one deal he frowned in concentration, delighting in his minds processing.

Certainly the picked onions and the sauerkraut had to go – it was an inappropriate time of year and certainly it was too cold for pickled beetroot.

Those jars were returned to the jaw compartment of his refrigerator.

He picked up a pot that's label was face away from him.

Kristoph Gavin read one word: Coleslaw.

Kristoph sniffed at the coleslaw in mild disgust. He'd taken a very decent offence of the stuff in the past few days. He didn't know why it was called what it was and the mixture that he was never certain would be right for him, would there be too much onion, too vinegary… not enough carrot? The irregularity and the constant living in fear of an incorrect dosage, it was unacceptable. He hated it.

Not to mention he had a strong suspicion that in his new country of which he was god coleslaw was one of the main reasons for gambling, drugs and vagrancy all mixed together with a healthy egg based concoction of no morals.

That was a certain no. He put it carefully back in the fridge and closed the door, giving a small shudder at the thought of such impurity.

Then taking a small melodramatic pause, Kristoph Gavin looked up at the camera and broke the fourth wall by saying 'tune in next week to see which type of butter I shall be using'

Pushing his glasses up onto his nose he cursed himself for being caught up in a ridiculous plot device.

**End Book 1**

God, him and me both  
I'll be back for this one, no fear.


	2. Chapter 2

Good evening friends.

Last time, we left Mr. Gavin very precariously with the choice of which butter spread to use for his sandwich.

Now, some people went strait in with the filling and worried for niceties later on. Kristoph Gavin was not so careless. There was time enough for filling and green matter later on, but the first stages were the most important. A man needed patience, and Kristoph Gavin had a lot of patience to spare; he could wait years for a carefully placed seed to bear fruit; he liked to think it was one of his strengths.

That and the painting of an entire hand of nails without smudge or spill in a round minute.

Naturally he made it look like he couldn't care if a person knew of it, taking care of ones self was paramount in his ideals and, naturally, those that knew him were never crass enough to suggest him being 'unmanly'. They would know how much that would hurt his feelings.

Kristoph Gavin's feelings were not something that could be hurt without a little gentle retribution.

A dark expression crossed his most serene of faces and gently I would like to remind all that the large end of an empty juice bottle was the last thing to deal out Kristoph Gavin's particular brand of 'gentle' retribution.

That and minor literature based larceny.

Some people just did not deserve the books they had; he was doing the world a favour. At least he could give a book a valuable place on his most esteemed shelf of collection.

He was quite proud of his library. He'd go so far as to say he'd want to bring it with him everywhere he went if he could.

Just to look at it.

Kristoph Gavin was a pure romanticist at heart really; it made him wonder how such a soft creature such as himself had survived so well over the years.

He picked up a small knife and straitened out the three tubs he had to choose from.  
It wasn't so touch a choice as he had first thought. Of course he was quite enjoying himself but some days it was frustrating when you couldn't make you mind up about a thing.  
He could choose from a spread made from freshly churned buttermilk, or one made from soy. Their taste was so widely different as to provide an interesting zest to any sandwich.

Kristoph Gavin was weary of treading into the exotic; he didn't want to go overboard about all this, after all.

Leave that sort of silliness to others, less versed in sandwich lore.

He chose a sunflower based butter. It was soft in the world outside of it's usually cold home and his knife plunged into its body so easily as to be a little disappointing.

Kristoph Gavin frowned a little as he shaved off a few layers to spread onto his precisely cut slices of bread.

That was sure to cost his new education system a few levels of efficiency if it was so soft already, and with such little prompting.

Nothing for it now, he could contain that softness only with the hard-nosed, blood red experience of an older generation, one of his favourite jellied fruits.

Cranberries.

Now, here was a fine thing to do, such chaos he could spill onto his sandwich you might only assume would infuriate him, but Kristoph Gavin was made of sterner stuff.

He also only bought the type of jellied cranberries that had been pre squeezed.

Deftly, and with the practice of years of lunchboxes under his belt he carefully scooped out his portion of the delightfully pungent mixture from the pot and levelled it upon the buttered slice before him, spreading the red buds of cranberry with flourish and vigour, turning the veritable chaos of shapes and sticky jelly into a smooth, rounded mass.

Such a strong flavour would keep the youth from disobeying its elders in such odious ways. Kristoph disliked it when he saw children fighting with their parents, when he saw subordinates question their superiors, when the younger generation foolishly thought they knew best?

It infuriated him so much that the grip on the handle of the spoon he held made the knuckles on his hand quite white.

'This will not do' he said to himself, taking a calming breath 'I will certainly have to take a small repose' he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose a fraction. If only to regain his composure.

Kristoph knew it was no good attempting to create a masterpiece when vexed in such a way. There was nothing for it.

The coolest defence lawyer in the west shall be back again to share his knowledge on decent, law abiding sandwich vegetables.

**End Book 2**

Damn those law breaking sandwich vegetables.  
I'll be back soon.


	3. Chapter 3

Now he was at a crossroads. Kristoph Gavin, after a brief repose of but a few days to let his first two instalments sink in, was getting caught in a dilemma.

Suddenly, and with great astonishment, he realised that he was irrevocably thirsty.

Looking up with blue eyes narrowed he wondered if it would be considered rude to leave his brief civilisation unattended.

Kristoph Gavin was not silly; of course he could leave his sandwich half made

He'd locked all the doors and windows before he'd started.

Reassured, Kristoph went to his fridge to retrieve an opened bottle of wine he'd had there since yesterday.

A mystery presented itself to him - the bottle was gone.

He frowned, looked over a half of the kitchen counter to his graciously decorated living room to answer the mystery. His best girl Vongole sprawled on his immaculate leather sofa, snoring softly, hiccupping every now and then.

Deadpan, Kristoph sighed, having long ago regretted teaching her how to open the fridge and pour herself a glass of the bad juice.  
Much in the same way he regretted teaching her how to use the bathroom… it always unnerved him, first thing in the morning especially.

Countless times had Kristoph Gavin's good nature backfired on him.

That aside, he made a trip to his wine rack, situated in the cellar for proper temperature and selected a decent vintage, luckily his alcoholic dog didn't hear him uncork it or his sandwich making would have to be put on hold for an even greater period of time trying to wrestle away the bottle.

He took a sip of the slightly cool white wine and sighed as the gentle tang filled the back of his throat, before he swallowed it down with a mild hum of appreciation.

Kristoph Gavin knew how to enjoy a glass of wine.

Now, he said, pointing his hand in the air with dramatic flair and a most interesting flourish of flailing limbs. It was time to select his vegetable. He sprang forward to his half-finished creation.

Now, naturally tomatoes were out, as was any form of onion. They would clash horrifically with the tang of the much-needed cranberries and neither of them afforded any sort of descent economical privileges. Not to mention he only had a choice of red and green… what a horrible clashing depravity *that* would be.

As if Kristoph Gavin would be that naïve.

Glancing at the oven with which he planned to toast his sandwich he decided against lettuce. Such a water-based vegetable could only endanger his new law enforcement, they needed to be tough on crime… not wilt and become tasteless at the first sign of heat from the common man and oven. It had to go.

Being careful to keep everything linear he picked up apples and bananas, cucumbers and the delightful mini zucchini he found in the French market last Tuesday and carefully packet them back into the fridge.

In the back of his mind Kristoph was no longer just freelancing it, he had in his head an idea of how his country… he meant sandwich would turn out. He hummed under his breath in anticipation.

It was just his little game revolving around a common form of megalomaniacal psychosis. He carefully began to cut slices off three different colours of pepper.

In his darker mind there was an idea that perhaps what his knife was cutting was somewhat human, but the only thing compared to size was that of a man's hand and Kristoph Gavin was not a maniac.

He just had a very strange view of what was really acceptable in this day an age. Blackmail and philandering to gain ones perfect results to name but a few - the mutilation of men's hands not being one of them.

He chuckled at the irony of his own thoughts, oh what a silly man he could be.

He continued to slice. Kristoph Gavin was not a maniac but his eyes darkened and that smile was not one of serenity either.

Once finished with he placed them to the side of his chopping board and reviewed the rest of his foodstuffs. He still had relishes, sandwich fillers, extra sauces… even some jam… all-waiting to offer their services

His fingers twitched.

Kristoph realised that he was endanger of over indulging his new civilisation. Too much sweetness, or extra flavour would do no one any good. He carefully began packing all them all away before he got too drunk with choice.

His mind made, he thought of something fromagé based.

There was, after all, nothing like a bit of cheese to put in a mans sandwich to keep him happy and inquisitive.

This was probably his most arduous task. So many delightful cheeses stared back at him, hopeful, for him to take his pick from them. What else could he do but stare at them in fascination?

Then, the unthinkable happened!

The doorbell rang!

**End Book 3**

Dun dun dun! Shock! Horror! Calamity! Mystery! Intrigue! Drama!  
Tune in next week to see what the hell is interrupting sandwich time!


	4. Chapter 4

Now, there were very few things in the world that caused Kristoph Gavin great deals of anxiety. Certainly to look at him you would think that there was nothing that could harm that cucumber cool as exterior.

Yet there were a few select things that could turn him into the sort of man that would want to bury a knife into that anxiety along with whatever had caused it.

This was one of those times.

Kristoph Gavin was no fan of interruptions. Especially not when there were sandwiches to be made.

His hand stilled at the sound of the pleasing melody that intoned through the hallways of his house.

A composition of such lyrical delight should not have sent such a chill down his spine yet Kristoph found his hands began to shake and as such he gripped the handle of the knife ever tighter.

In the tense silence after the melody subsided Kristoph paused and looked up, an unusual hysteria overtaking him.

Who could it be, was not the question he first asked himself. No, that wasn't his main concern. The rules of propriety dictated he must answer his door… but then what of his culinary feats thus far?

Would his sandwich ever be the same, being left out in the open for such time as pleasant doorway chitchat?

What if he was compelled to invite someone into his house?

Aghast at such a thought, years of good breeding aloud him to deduce instantly his next course of action. Calmly, the grip on his knife changed to that most irregular for slicing. He'd not be able to use its for his sandwich afterwards, but he had other knives and being free from distraction was all he really wanted.

Aghast at such a thought, years of good breeding aloud him to deduce instantly his next course of action. Calmly, the grip on his knife changed to that most irregular for slicing. He'd not be able to use its for his sandwich afterwards, but he had other knives and being free from distraction was all he really wanted.

Kristoph Gavin wasn't a violent man; some people just had bad timing.

Swiftly he moved to the doorway of the kitchen.

The bell rang again, this time accompanied with the sound of banging. The most obnoxious banging he could have ever heard, and on his own front door!

Just about to get his prowl on, like so many ninja, Kristoph stopped and looked at the small security box on the wall beside him and frowned, the green letters telling him it was setting 4: Caution. He had wondered what was taking so long.

A few buttons later and the situation was rectified.

With a small, complacent, smile on his face, Kristoph Gavin returned to his kitchen, the sound of melee and screaming following him, as guns of indiscriminate legality and laser pinpointing politely declined his guests their visit.

Kristoph knew there had been a good reason in getting the level 9: Ballista setting installed.

If anyone could say he was over the top, you must understand that for a man as dedicated to sandwich making as Kristoph Gavin, someone ringing his doorbell was a big deal.

Turning back to his sandwich he realised that there was still a long way to go before it was completed. He still had the cheese to select, and he was already halfway through the fourth instalment with interruptions!

This would not do.

Letting his knife down he took stock of his options. Glancing at the grill he realised he had not the luxury of patience now, to choose an appropriate cheese for any sort of merit to his country.

He took delight in cursing a little, enjoying the pressure and welcoming the challenge.

If there was one thing his country needed, it was the ability to stay strong throughout!

Kristoph Gavin was a man always in control, he prided himself on it, it was how he worked best, and he knew of really only one cheese that could help him regain his composure.

Not cheddar, far too common. Not a soft cheese either; he needed nothing flavoured with garlic or herbs! That sort of frippery could be held for another day! Even thought that Gruyere he'd found at the market last Tuesday looked just to die for, there was really only one of his sixteen cheeses he could use.

The tin kept it fresh; the water inside kept it moist and malleable. Kristoph reverently pulled the mozzarella from its case and began to slice it delicately.

Acutely aware of how much of an effect this particular cheese could have on his entire world Kristoph was careful to be careful. Slices no more than half a centre meter thick and never cut quicker than 1 every three seconds.

Not only would it add a distinctly moderate tone to the sandwich, it would make a perfectly soothing balm to his anxieties. It would also help bind together the community by cooling anger and cementing community spirit. That was what he wanted, people who sympathised with others. People who didn't interrupt.

Mozzarella could do all that – it would do all that easily.

He looked at the other cheeses once he'd finished cutting and felt a brief pang for the all the ones he could have chosen had circumstances been different. Brie was always such a classic favourite and some of the German smoked cheeses were divine.

Alas circumstance weren't always in Kristoph Gavin's favour.

With a sigh that was getting closer and closer to the contentment of earlier he placed the slices on his sandwich, stood back and took a long breath followed by a sip of his wine.

He'd done it, he'd survived.

And now, it was almost time; he looked towards the rest of the ingredients. The big guns, he thought with a wry smile. All he had to do now was choose the meat.

**End Book 4**

Crisis averted with extreme violence.  
Learn well children.


	5. Chapter 5

Kristoph Gavin was never a man to use a sport metaphor in everyday life, but the term 'end game' was flitting through the back of his head as he surveyed the various hams and meats he had laid out before him, knowing that he was mere minutes away from ecstasy.

It was filling him with butterflies, just to think of what he could accomplish with the right kind of sausage.

For the meat, Kristoph Gavin would often surmise, was the lifeblood of civilisation, its law and order. It's system of prosecution and defence.

If you are not now poised upon the edge of your seat like this man would be if he were sitting, then I don't know what this last month has been about.

He turned first to the salami basket. He had a very decent butcher, the aromas wafting to him speaking volumes of quality.

He enjoyed the French variety, so light, but the Italian kind was always so robust and moist, inherently smoky.

Italian? Parma, now there was a ham. Honey roasted, smoked, brazed, and cured what more choice could be possibly desire?

That would certainly keep people in fear of the hand of the law, a healthy dose of tolerable cruelty to inspire those to keep in line.

A frown – there was something lacking…

There was a rather prominent looking sausage at the back of the basket… darker than all the others he'd ever sampled, slightly roguish in taste, tangy. Klavier.

A gift from one of the many Gavinner's tours, Klavier would always joke how, no matter what, he knew Kristoph liked German sausage best.

Kristoph was getting weary of all the sausage talk and innuendo that entailed.

He was a boy of his roots after all… even after the pains to make himself seem like a gentleman. Something told him that was the way forward.

A soft nose butted the side of his leg softly. He blinked and looked down, a sleepy looking Vongole gazing up at him, the smell of meat all too tempting for her. He reached down to pet her head gently.

"You've decided to join us finally?" he asked teasingly, she brushed her ear against his thigh "I suppose you were woken up by that banging earlier?" he asked her in a conversational tone, taking his hand back.

A small grunt of accent that made the choosing that much more complicated. He glanced down; she saved him his breath of compassion by ambling over to her water bowl and drinking as if it were a 40 year-old sauvignon.

Kristoph Gavin paused; his perspective was having things put to it.

Kristoph Gavin was many things, sandwich aficionado, coolest defence in the west. Some called him cold, heartless, it was true he was always in control. Indeed, Kristoph never had time for things like sympathy or compassion. In a court of law, such things were a luxury you could ill afford when the fate of a life or reputation was at stake.

Bluffs were all very well in the courts of law, but there were some times you just had to face it.

A large, fluffy looking dog with a hangover and large, beseeching eyes was an indulgence Kristoph could afford to have.

Musing, as was his want, he decided that he would be far happier if his system of law was more academic than stern, more defined than full of dangerous passion, something sturdy that wouldn't upset the stomach.

Parma ham was all very well and good, but the allure of thickly cut hollandaise ham was too much for him.

He took his knife and small pitching fork and set to work carving some slices.

The rich flavour would provide depth and compassion, while it's firm body would ensure stability. A full and enchanting aroma would enable clarity of thought.

Most thrilling was the large, rounded slices he would cut, making sure that reason and logic, above all others, prevailed.

Setting those pieces upon the soft mozzarella, and placing on top the slice of carefully cut bread that would make his sandwich complete, he stopped and gazed at it in rapturous awe.

Just for this moment, we all waited.

His perfect city, full of pride, foodstuffs and good clean morals… it was beautiful.

Devouring it would be exquisite.

**End Book 5**

Tune in tomorrow for the gripping conclusion!


	6. Chapter 6

With great care he took his sandwich and placed it at the centre of the grill, anticipation rife.

He began packing away the last vestiges of his meat and sandwich making products. His washing up took even less time than that and he even poured himself another glass of wine.

Outside it was a fabulous day. He knew that if his civilisation wasn't currently burning to death in his oven that they would be enjoying themselves almost as much as he was.

There was a slight melancholy in the way he moved, as if sad that this was all over. He'd had such a time of it and rather thought it a shame to end it all.

Kristoph would not be classed as sentimental. While his civilisation was perfect, there was honour in a thing he could enjoy creating again.

It was with great care and a little reluctance that he took the chef's hat from his head and neatly folded the apron, tucking them away in the tea towel drawer.

The last use of his knife was in cutting the warm and slightly crunchy sandwich.

He was not an overly emotional man and maybe he would like to put it down to the potency of the wine. But by god if Kristoph Gavin didn't make a fine looking sandwich!  
On a side view he had never seen a more pleasing vista.

Taking it by plate with him, he sat upon his sofa and tried to savour the moment as was largely expected of him.

Kristoph Gavin grinned, inappropriate for the situation I realise, he could always appreciate the irony of destroying something beautiful.

It was without much guilt to any anticipating reader with a love of climatic endings that he took the first bite swiftly.

It was as if heaven was coalescing in his mouth. His eyes closed for a moment in full swing pallet approval.  
Such divine flavour… such glorious mix of sweet and subtle.  
He could wax lyrical, he surmised, for many hours on just that moment alone.

There was thump, like a pile of dry washing collapsing in a heap beside him, and he held his arm a little high on the left so a tired head could nuzzle it's way through.

He'd resigned himself to it the moment she wondered over to butt him with her nose. It wasn't as if he could escape her foul demanding eyes any more than he could forego his desire to push up his glasses in a fairly arousing manner, it was inevitable.

"Hungry?" he enquired politely, already comfortable with his breaking the conversation barrier in the last instalment.

Vongole stirred and, breaking off a small piece, suitably filled with sliced ham, he blew it until it was cool enough and let her eat it from his fingers. Her large, fluffed tail rose up and fell once on the sofa arm as she ate, her head inching closer to the plate.

Kristoph Gavin was paramount, naturally, but certainly not, as it happened, the only creature in the house that enjoyed a good sandwich.

**The End.**

That was a hell of a thing.  
Reviewers – you've been mad, bad and dangerous to know! My thanks.


End file.
